Mischief Night
by Nancy Kaminski
Summary: Why did Nick Forrester have a receipt for 72 rolls of toilet paper in his wallet? The answer is in this challenge story.


PREFACE  
  
A few days ago, there was a tiny discussion on FORKNI-L that involved  
the following exchanges:  
  
Susan Garrett wrote:  
If it's any help, the old wallet of Nick's that Schanke finds in  
Close Call contains a receipt from a grocery store for a 72 roll  
package of toilet paper.  
  
I replied:  
But that was because Nick needed supplies for TPing every tree on  
Lacroix's upstate New York country home!  
  
And Laurie responded:  
Bwahahahahaha!!!!!! Delightful mental images abound! Somebody has  
gott write this one! Fanfic challenge, anyone?  
  
Unable to resist a challenge, here it is:  
  
THE TP CHALLENGE  
  
Let's see if anyone else can write a story explaining why Nick would  
have bought 72 rolls of toilet paper. I dare ya!  
  
=====================================================================  
Mischief Night (01/01)  
by Nancy Kaminski  
(c) November 1998  
=====================================================================  
  
UPSTATE NEW YORK, OCTOBER 28, 1964  
  
"Seventy-one, seventy-two," Nick counted as he drifted over the  
moonlit landscape. "I'm going to need more than I thought."  
  
With that cryptic comment he shot off into the night sky. He had a  
lot of work to do.  
  
~~~~~  
  
FLASHBACK: One Week Earlier  
  
"Damn!" Nick Forrester yanked the book out of the bookcase and  
reshelved it in its proper place. "Why does he have to mess  
everything up?" he muttered as he found another misplaced tome.  
"Perfect"--yank--"recall"--yank--"and he"--shove--"can't put"  
--shove--"things back"--slam--"where they belong! Grrrr!"  
  
The aggravated vampire cast his eyes around his apartment, looking  
for anything else out of its rightful place. He found a stack of his  
best LPs on the floor next to the sofa (and, on closer examination,  
the disks in the wrong jackets), several pieces of valuable  
pre-Columbian pottery shoved aside on the coffee table, presumably to  
make room for lounging feet, and magazines inexplicably strewn on the  
kitchen counter.  
  
"He stays over one day---*one day*---and everything goes to hell in a  
handbasket!" Nick stomped through his living quarters in a pique,  
rearranging his possessions into their correct configuration.  
  
"What was that, Nicholas?" The oil-smooth voice sounded amused.  
Lacroix closed the front door, dropped the car keys on the end table  
and raised an eyebrow at his agitated progeny in one fluid series of  
moves.  
  
Nick swung around and the two vampires locked eyes. After a brief and  
unsuccessful staredown, Nick said icily, "This is not a hotel,  
Lacroix. When is your apartment going to be ready? And who said you  
could use my car?"  
  
"Ah, yes, your car." Lacroix crossed the room and sat down on the  
sofa, putting his feet up on the recently-tidied coffee table. "I'm  
afraid there's been a bit of an accident." He picked up a copy of  
Life and started leafing through it.  
  
"WHAT?!?"  
  
"Relax, it's a small dent. Really, Nicholas, it's just a car--and an  
ugly one at that. I'm sure it won't cost you much to have it  
repaired. Perhaps you can take this opportunity to have it painted  
something other than that repulsive green."  
  
Nick was left speechless for a moment. He closed his eyes, drew a  
deep breath, exhaled, then said carefully, "And your apartment will  
be ready exactly when?"  
  
Lacroix looked up from a photo story on President Johnson's beagles.  
"Oh, it's ready tonight. I just have to collect my bag and go."  
  
"Then GO!"  
  
Lacroix got to his feet unhurriedly, heaving a dramatic sigh. "Oh,  
very well. I can see you wish me to leave." He collected his  
overnight bag and jacket and headed for the door. "I'll need your car  
again," he said, reaching for the keys.  
  
Nick's hand got there first. "Call a cab. Fly. Walk. Take the subway.  
You're NOT TAKING MY CAR," he said through gritted teeth.  
  
Lacroix's hand withdrew smoothly. "Incidentally, I'm having a few  
things delivered here instead of my new apartment. I'm going to the  
estate on the thirty-first to avoid being accosted by juvenile  
beggars, and that's the date my purchases are due to arrive. It's  
just a few boxes."  
  
Even as he resented this further imposition on his life, Nick  
silently thanked Providence for this favor on behalf of all tiny  
trick-or-treaters everywhere. He didn't want to think about the  
consequences of a five-year-old fairy princess trying to shake down  
his master for a Hershey bar. "Don't let me keep you," he said,  
looking pointedly at the door.  
  
Lacroix smiled gently and left without another word.  
  
Nick went back to straightening up his apartment, taking the  
opportunity to work himself into a thoroughly satisfying state of  
high dudgeon. He tried to think of ways to exact revenge for his  
master's latest impositions but couldn't think of any that wouldn't  
result in serious bodily injury to himself. Of course, it might be  
worth it, but he'd rather not. Been there, done that, as the saying  
went.  
  
Finally everything was as it should be, and Nick dropped with a sigh  
onto the sofa, still fuming gently. If Lacroix wasn't messing with  
his mind, it seemed, he was messing with his stuff, and at this point  
Nick wasn't sure which he resented more.  
  
For distraction he picked up the evening newspaper and started  
leafing through the Metro section. A small headline caught his  
eye--"Police Stepping Up Patrols for Mischief Night."  
  
Mischief Night?  
  
Intrigued, he read the story. Apparently the authorities were gearing  
up to combat the minor vandalism expected on the night of October 30,  
'Mischief Night,' when teenagers ran rampant, egging houses, soaping  
windows, leaving burning sacks of dog manure on front steps, and  
similar anti-social deeds.  
  
These escapades were somehow connected with Halloween, although Nick  
couldn't see how. Of course, he couldn't understand the theory of  
Halloween, either, but that was neither here nor there. A germ of an  
idea took root in his mind.  
  
Lacroix was going to be in his new apartment in New York City up  
until October 31, whereupon he was relocating to his upstate New York  
estate. The large house sat in solitary splendor on one hundred acres  
of lovely rolling countryside, far away from the madding human crowd.  
  
In other words, it would be a tempting unguarded target for a horde  
of marauding teenagers on Mischief Night.  
  
Or one very put-upon middle-aged vampire.  
  
END FLASHBACK  
  
~~~~~  
  
During the week leading up to Halloween, Nick did a little research  
on the phenomenon of Mischief Night, and the typical acts of  
vandalism one could expect to suffer. He wanted to choose the perfect  
act of veiled revenge.  
  
He briefly thought of the old standby, soaping windows. This  
particular deed was annoying but removable, but somehow he knew  
Lacroix would instantly know who had done it if 'Lacroix is a jerk'  
written in Latin showed up on second-story panes of glass. Besides,  
his master would recognize his handwriting.  
  
In the end Nick decided decided that reconnoitering the target might  
help him pick out the perfect act. Accordingly, at dusk the next day  
he took to the air and flew upstate.  
  
His master's estate wasn't far, only one hundred miles or so, so he  
made quick work of the journey. Once there, he settled silently to  
the frosty grass and flitted wraithlike across the grounds, letting  
his imagination have free rein.  
  
It was an elegant house of warm red brick with white porticos and  
gleaming graceful windows. A tree-lined drive led up to the imposing  
front entrance.  
  
*Trees.* Nick looked thoughtfully at the drive. Stately, ancient elms  
towered along the graveled lane, their overarching boughs interlaced  
to form a leafy tunnel. Or at least they would in the summer---now,  
in October, their branches were bare.  
  
Not for long. Nick smiled. It wasn't a pretty sight. He levitated and  
began counting.  
  
~~~~~  
  
UPSTATE NEW YORK, MISCHIEF NIGHT, OCTOBER 30, 1964  
  
"Wow, stocking up your fallout shelter?" the clerk asked. "I've never  
sold that many to one person."  
  
"Maybe," Nick smiled as he paid the bill, stuck the receipt in his  
wallet, then hefted the large cardboard box full of ammunition. "You  
never know when you'll need some, right?"  
  
"Uh, I suppose so," the clerk replied. He watched his odd customer  
disappear into the night, then went off to tell the night manager to  
put Puffy Cloud toilet paper, all colors, on the reorder list, since  
their entire supply was sold out.  
  
~~~~~  
  
Nick set his cardboard box on the ground and selected a roll. It was  
a rather nice shade of pink, scented, and two-ply for staying power.  
He hefted it experimentally, then threw it up and out over the first  
elm tree.  
  
Trailing a long tongue of pink, the toilet paper tangled nicely in  
the upper branches of the tree, then stuck.  
  
Frowning, Nick flew up and retrieved the roll. Maybe there was a  
better way to do this than the traditional throwing method.  
  
He draped the end of the paper on a branch, then with the roll  
spooling out behind him, flew in circles around the tree. He was  
delighted with the decorative spiral pattern he made, rather like the  
stripes in a Venetian glass paperweight. Very nice.  
  
He made quick work of that tree, using the entire roll. Gathering up  
another roll, he moved on, this time making vertical stripes with an  
attractive accent diagonal from the outmost branch to the bottom of  
the trunk.  
  
And so he moved from tree to tree, creating three-dimensional paper  
sculptures. The tissue fluttered in the damp wind, clinging and  
shredding among the upper branches, until the entire lane was a  
tangle of pale, spectral ribbons moving in the night breeze like  
attenuated ghosts. The pale pastels---pink, blue, yellow, and  
white---glowed gently in the moonlight. It was, Nick decided as he  
surveyed his efforts, worthy of Jackson Pollock at his abstract  
expressionistic best. He almost regretted that it wouldn't last.  
  
Almost, but not quite. Looking at his creation, he realized that even  
the dimmest vampire---and his master was far from dim---would know  
that another vampire had created this glorious mess, not a bunch of  
human teenagers, not unless they had access to a cherrypicker and  
were tree surgeons in their spare time.  
  
Uh-oh. He was in for it. But damn, it felt GOOD!  
  
~~~~~  
  
NOVEMBER 3, 1964  
  
Nick looked up from his newspaper when he heard the door open and  
close. His insides clenched momentarily when he sensed the identity  
of his visitor, but he quelled the feeling of doom and managed to  
raise a mild inquiring face to his master. "Good evening, Lacroix.  
Did you remember to vote today? I don't think Goldwater has a  
chance, do you?"  
  
In reply the ancient vampire stood silently in front of his progeny  
and removed something from his pocket. Shreds of damp pastel tissue  
paper splooshed to the coffee table.  
  
Nick looked at them with a raised eyebrow. "There's paper in the  
bathroom, you know. You didn't have to bring your own."  
  
"Do you know the meaning of this?" Lacroix's voice was soft, with a  
familiar undertone of threat.  
  
"Yes, Lacroix, I do. It's toilet paper, and you use it when you..."  
  
"NOT THAT!" his master thundered. He continued in his 'I want to  
dismember someone' tone of voice. "I am well aware of what toilet  
paper is. I want to know why it is currently defacing my property."  
  
"Oh, dear." Nick tried to sound sympathetic and at the same time mask  
his thoughts, not an easy thing to do since that was one of those  
overlooked lessons he had had to pick up on the streets. "They got  
you on Mischief Night, huh?"  
  
"'They' apparently did. I suspect you know who 'they' are---and that  
'they' are going to pay dearly for this." Lacroix glowered furiously.  
The emphasis he put on the word 'they' plainly indicating he had more  
than a passing suspicion he knew who 'they' were, and merely wanted a  
confession. Nick could feel his master trying to probe his innermost  
being.  
  
Nick kept up his defenses and said blandly, "Sorry, can't help you  
out. Would you care for a drink? I still have one bottle of your  
blend in the fridge." He got up and moved towards the kitchen.  
  
He found himself suspended by his collar with his toes several inches  
from the ground, nose to nose with his enraged sire. They glared at  
each other, the effect somewhat spoiled by the trembling of Nick's  
lips as he tried to refrain from laughing.  
  
"AUGHGHGHGH!" Lacroix roared as he threw his son at the wall,  
frustrated that the desired confession wasn't forthcoming and his  
inability, for once, to get through Nick's defenses. He turned to  
stomp out the door.  
  
From his position sprawled on the floor, Nick called, "Wait,  
Lacroix, I do have one thing to tell you."  
  
Lacroix halted, his back to Nick. "WHAT?!?"  
  
Nick levered himself up into a sitting position. "Only that if you  
wait long enough, it'll just sort of melt off the trees. Or so I  
gather. In the meantime, just think of it as---modern art."  
  
The sound of the door slamming shut almost drowned out Nick's  
helpless laughter.  
  
Fin  
  
Comments, criticisms, Belgian vandals, and rolls of Charmin to:  
nancykam@mediaone.net  
  
  



End file.
